sun hurts my eyes

As the sun rises over the clouds, dispelling the darkness of Longnight away and welcoming the painted flush of a brightly colored sky, Finch treads through the abandoned scene of a successful party and looks for the spoils of war. The lithe thief's feet tread silently as ever on the soft ground, dancing easily between smears of abandoned desserts, scattered chairs, and overturned wine glasses. It brings to mind the image of an archeologist unearthing remnants of an ancient civilization, painstakingly reconstructing how these flashes of half-faded images once constituted a people, a place, a feeling. If In Finch's professional opinion, it looks like evidence of a fabulously roaring night. 

He feels more like a carrion bird than a lively finch as he combs through what's left. It's the end of his night, rather than the start of his morning, but his profession has always demanded unusual hours of its disciples. The truly dedicated masters of their craft build their circadian rhythms around the ebb and flow of the people they steal and swindle from, and Finch, who claims he stole his way out of his mother's womb with a set of lockpicks in hand, is no different. He'll sleep later, stealing a nap in the shade with a dagger clutched ready in his hand, before embarking on the long journey home. After a lifetime of sleeping in strange places, he truly resembles his namesake in his ability to perch anywhere and doze. 

A grand party makes for sloppy guests, and Finch has collected a pearl necklace, a set of nice leather gloves, a loose earring, and one singular heeled shoe. A prouder man may be embarrassed to pick at the corpse of an occasion like this, but Finch much prefers not dying of starvation to his pride. A feral tomcat eats any prey, and Finch, with his crooked nose, scarred face, and prowling silent grace, is far too aware of their resemblance to pass on any advice. He's reaching down to examine something that could either be an abandoned gem or a cool-looking rock when he sees a body splayed out on the floor, deep in what can only be a hungover slumber. 

He furrows his brow and slips closer. Is that...? He recognizes the lovely face, recalling twinkling eyes and a blow-for-blow matching of his game. Finch nudges the girl gently with his foot. He'd liked her the night before; he'd do her the favor of making sure she was still alive. 

"Are you alive?" He asks, to achieve this end. Just to be annoying, he slips a hand into her pocket and wiggles it around, hoping to rouse her rather than anticipating finding anything.

Aithne

High infidelity
Put on your records and regret me

The darkness of slumber is Aithne's sanctuary.

Or it was, until a vaguely familiar voice jars her back to wakefulness.

"Oh, for fuck's sake," she groans, cracking open one eye to peer up at the blurry form of someone towering over her. The morning light shatters the comfort that she'd found in her dreamscape, and she moans anew as knives of sun jab into her eyeballs and through the back of her skull. Who dares disturb her slumber? They're going to pay dearly... just as soon as she manages to sit up without feeling like she's going to hurl up everything she'd imbibed last night.

A hand slips into her empty pocket and wiggles, and Aithne swats weakly at the intruder, mumbling something incoherent about leave me alone or go away. Squinting harder at the stranger, she makes out pale skin, dark hair, and a slender figure that seems like someone she should know. "'M gonna bite you if y' don't fuck off," she mumbles, but there's no venom to it, not really. Logically, she knows that if their positions were reversed, she'd be just as obnoxious as this stranger is being.

Practically, though, she might make good on her threat as soon as she can move.

I bent the truth too far tonight
I was dancing around, dancing around it

Okay, so she was alive. That was a relief, even if she was looking to bite him for doing the very kind favor of making sure she was just hungover and not actually a corpse. As Finch gazes down at her supine, groaning body, her hands struggling lightly against his in her pockets, he figures she probably wishes she was a corpse, though. At least until the hangover wears off. 

“Had too much fun last night, huh?” He asks, crouching down next to her (but still out of biting distance). Her eyes are tired and bleary, and Finch has seen the look in many, many mornings-afters. He’s just happy she seems too out of it to remember that they had met the night before, with Finch reaching his hand somewhere where it didn’t belong. Otherwise, that threat of biting might turn from his thieving hands to his throat. He remembers the glimmer of her fangs all-too vividly. 

He rocks backwards on his heels, considering, head tilting sideways as he studies here. There could still be something gained here if he played his cards right. He pokes her side, pulling her back from wherever she was drifting off to. "Hey," He says, a little too loudly on purpose, hoping his voice rings in her head. "I'll leave you alone for some money," He grins wickedly.

Aithne

High infidelity
Put on your records and regret me

Aithne is indeed alive, although at this particular moment, she finds herself wishing she was not. Perhaps death would soothe the pounding behind her eyeballs. And, as an added bonus, maybe it would get rid of the pesky thief, too.

Or maybe they're already dead, and she's been unfortunate enough to run into him in the afterlife, too. That would be unfortunate.

Still pressing weakly at the hand in her pocket, she glares daggers (read: looks pitifully) up at the stranger. "Just leave me to die," she moans dramatically, flinging a hand over her eyes as she flops back upon the ground. The darkness provided by the motion almost - but not quite - offsets the stabbing pain from the movement.

At the man's offer, Aithne snorts a noise that sounds suspiciously like a laugh. Aside from the fact that she has no money to offer, she certainly isn't going to roll over and give up her metaphorical riches - not even hungover. So she peeks out from beneath her arm and says, "You have no idea how annoying I can be. Maybe you'll pay me to leave you alone."

I bent the truth too far tonight
I was dancing around, dancing around it

The undergrowth ahead parts just enough to reveal the suggestion of a massive form pressed low against the jungle floor. An Allogator lies in wait, its outline broken by leaves and shadow.

Only the faintest movement gives it away — a slow shift of muscle, the quiet settling of vegetation as it breathes.

It does not charge or retreat. It waits, patient and perfectly still, until something strays close enough to make the decision for it.

---

Allogator Areas Found: Hollowed Grounds, The Feverlands, Oerwoud — Uncommon An allogator is a crocodilian creature that evolved to take the appearance of a normal log. When it spots its prey, it remains motionless as it hides in plain sight, waiting for the prey to come to it, before attacking by surprise. Challenge Rating: Moderate HP: 1,266 | To Hit: +35 | Dmg: 31 Movement: Walk 30 ft.; Swim 40 ft. SPECIAL SKILLS Amphibious Endurance: can remain submerged for a long time, surfacing only to breathe; Armoured Scales: thick hide blunts claws, teeth, and small blades; Ripple Sense: detects minute vibrations and pressure changes in the water to pinpoint movement; Night Sight: excellent low-light vision for hunting at dusk and dawn

TRAITS Log Camouflage: when perfectly still it is indistinguishable from a floating log; Still-Water Ambusher: remains motionless for hours, striking only when prey is in reach; Low Profile: travels with only eyes and nostrils above the surface to avoid detection; Shoreline Lurker: favours shallows, mud banks, and drift piles for cover ACTIONS Sudden Lunge: explodes from stillness to close the last few feet in an instant; Bite & Drag: clamps down and hauls prey into deeper water to overwhelm it; Death Roll: locks its jaws and spins violently to break limbs and disorient; Tail Lash: a sweeping strike that can knock a target off its feet

It sounds like a challenge and he's about to say so when a slight shifting off to his right alerts him to movement. His dagger is out in an instant, pausing only when he sees the big-gator-creature-thing lurking in wait. It doesn't look like it particularly wants to get up from its hiding spot so Finch does not want to give it a reason to do so, slowly re-sheathing his dagger and turning his attention back to the whining girl on the floor. 

"I highly doubt that," Finch says, in reference to him paying her; he's bled, sweat, and cried for his spoils, and the interesting things his hands found in pockets from the night before still reside merrily in his pockets. He would rather she try to feel him to that gator-thing than fork it over to anyone, much less her. Besides, he was the one prone and upright, walking and talking and spry and lithe even in the wee hours of the morning. She was the one groaning and threatening various shades of death, so who had the advantage here? Besides, Finch had many, many years of being annoying.

His finger met her side again in a brief sharp poke. "You still alive?" He asks, knowing she absolutely is. Another poke. "What's your name?" And then, "There's an easy way to end this. For the low, low cost of whatever you've got on you. I'll even help drag your butt to wherever it is you need to go to get out of here." And probably take the opportunity to rob everyone there blind as well.